


we'll be a fine line

by skyekingsleigh



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25689757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyekingsleigh/pseuds/skyekingsleigh
Summary: Napoleon hates the idea of having to spend forever with someone he did not choose for himself. Illya is engaged. Napoleon and Illya are soulmates.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller (background), Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 71





	we'll be a fine line

**Author's Note:**

> so this has been sitting in my drafts and i just decided to...post it lol. no idea if i'll continue this but who knows? for now it's fin/tbc. title from harry styles' fine line.

A bell rings in the distance, far away but still loud enough for Napoleon to hear, and it makes him want to throw up a little. It happens fewer and fewer each day, but the familiar sound is still riveting in the way it throws itself to people and expect them to act all happy and excited. Granted, many still believe in the ‘uniting of souls’ or whatever it is they’ve been forced to believe, but Napoleon knows better than that now.

He doesn’t cover the thin, white, incision-like scar that mars his left wrist. Sometimes he even lets his fingers trace the fine line of it, the slight bump in the otherwise flawless skin, whispers to it even: just stay that way. I don’t need anything else, so just stay that way. Of course the soul mark doesn’t talk back, but Napoleon finds the act therapeutic anyway. Maybe some higher being will hear him and will not subject him to the kind of life where he has to grow old with someone he did not choose for himself. It’s almost two in the morning, and he plays with the thought that somewhere a few blocks away from where he stands, two people’s soul marks became crimson red. It’s probably two drunks trying to make their way home, and stumbling upon something they aren’t prepared for just because the government tells them they have to be together. He hates it.

The Metropolitan Museum is something he knows almost better than the back of his hand, now, after coming and going for more than a hundred times since he was a child. Still, there’s release in the way Napoleon barely just escapes, and it’s as addicting as it is a risk. He’s done it too many times now but it never fails to just thrill him. He’s learned to disarm all alarms, evade all the cameras, unlock even the most complicated of vaults underneath. Sometimes he steals artworks just because of the kick it gives him, just because he can, just because sometimes he craves something easy in his life. Sometimes he also just really needs the extra cash.

Ignoring the shrill ringing of bells, Napoleon proceeds to walk as carefully as he could across the smooth tiled museum floors, a scroll casing of about three feet in one hand with the other one in his pocket. A Japanese painting on cloth is rolled carefully inside, something not nearly as priceless as his Monet or even his Rafael, but one he’s stared at enough times in his childhood that it definitely stands out. He fought down the urge to whistle although the same tune he heard in the radio that morning rings in his head like a broken record. His mother loved music–the jazz kind, with heavy strings and unbelievable bass lines–but not as much as she adored art. When Napoleon was a child, they used to live just two streets away from the Met, and if he thought hard enough he could even imagine the tight grip his mother would have on his wrist, the excited smile she wore as she dragged him to look at the unassuming painting. No, this theft is not for monetary purposes or some other sort. This is pure sentimentality.

He continues walking towards his planned escape route, one he had planned two weeks in advance, but another set of ringing bells make him pause in his tracks. This time the sound is louder, more imposing, more right there. It echoes so loudly against the empty museum that Napoleon could swear the floor rumbles along with the sound. Intrigued, Napoleon looks around, only to stop at the sight of another person–tall, striking, blue, panic-stricken eyes–staring back.

-

Illya is late for work–not that it matters, not that it would make him rush, not when Gaby is sprawled over his chest laughing about something that they really shouldn’t find funny.

“You’re evil,” he chuckles under his breath, accent thicker in the cusp of consciousness than usual. Darkness still painted the sky in hues of blacks and blues, and Gaby has only just gotten home, and normally the constant ring of his alarm every five minutes will suffice, but something about the moment makes Illya feel reluctant to go. “I am late.”

Gaby blows a strand of hair away from her face. “Do you really have to go? We could have breakfast together for once. That would be nice, right? Eat breakfast with your fiancée.”

“I have mission,” He grumbles this time, pressing one last lingering kiss onto Gaby’s lips before shuffling off the bed. “It’s just to retrieve something in the Met. Should not be too difficult.”

“Be careful for me, will you, Kuryakin?” Gaby tells him fondly, but the soft words do not mask the concern lining her eyes. They are used to this by now, though, so Illya smiles a smile reserved just for her and gives a little nod.

“I’m always careful, Chop shop girl.”

The truth is he’s almost shot to death ten minutes into the mission. There were more people guarding the underground vault than he expected, all armed and seemingly waiting for him. Normally he would have no problem taking down a dozen men, even more, but this time he was too preoccupied trying to open the damn vault door–the first two minutes were actually embarrassing and Illya would like to forget about every second of it. He’d only been alerted when a bullet whizzes past his ear (almost grazing it) and goes straight into the metal door. But of course, it took him no less than twelve minutes to incapacitate them all, but he’s still pretty sure his ears would ring for years after that one incident. It took him a few more tries before finally opening the vault door, and that’s only because it was the same kind that he purposefully studied about prior to the mission.

He’s light in his steps as he retraces his way back out, but a bouncing–and whistling–figure made him stop and cock his gun. Suddenly, a loud bell rings, heavy with its sound and its complication, and the figure turns back to look at him in alarm. The line in his wrist, once pale and dead and irrelevant, burns red, and Illya reacts fast. Before the other man could open his mouth, his fist is already flying out, knocking the stranger back with a heavy punch.

“Motherfucker!” Electric blue eyes stare up at him in shock and anger, blood oozing from his now split lip, jaw just starting to bruise. “What the hell, man?”

Illya ignores him, his hands starting to tremble and his vision blurring in the way it hasn’t since a long time ago, before his new job, before Gaby. _Gaby_. The thought of his fiancée drives anger to once again boil inside, and he just barely prepares for another hit when the stranger–slicked back hair, dark like night, slightly curled at the edges and why is he noticing this? –hits him back. Hard. Meaningful. He lets his head roll back with the impact, ignores the way the skin of his cheek where the man touched with his fist tingles, focuses instead on the sting of a cut that a ring must have caused.

“You,” Illya’s voice shakes, accent thicker as he points a finger to the man who he knows would only ruin his life. “You stay away from me.”

Not bothering to wait for a reply, Illya walks away.


End file.
